


Following the Map that Leads to You

by Squeaky



Series: I'll Point You Home [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awesome Sam Wilson, Becca Barnes is a great sister, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, But also a bit of a goof, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, OTP: Not Without You, OTP: Till the End of the Line, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve was young, his mother taught him that you could find your soulmate by thinking of your soulmarks and pointing at a map. But she never told him what to do if you met your soulmate - and then lost him. </p><p>Lucky for Steve, Clint won't leave this kind of shit alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Following the Map that Leads to You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Words on my skin, love in my heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759835) by [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview). 



> Amusewithaview wrote a great Avengers soulmark AU series. So good, in fact, that I was inspired to write my own. 
> 
> I totally copied Steve's mother's soulmark from Taste_is_Sweet's own wonderful addition to the Avengers soulmark trope: [(You Can't Choose) What Stays and What Fades Away,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2111112) because Tasty's take on it was perfect, so why fix what ain't broke? And I know she really didn't mind because she's also my skilled and charming beta, and she didn't change it when she had the chance. 
> 
> The relationship between Becca and Bucky in this fic is based on my relationship with Taste_is_Sweet. Yes she is just that awesome. 
> 
> The song title is from 'Maps' by Maroon 5. I've never listened to it, but the lyrics are cool and totally appropriate.
> 
> * * *

Steve was seven years old when his words came. 

It had been a normal day, leading into a normal night, but sometime in the small hours of the morning he woke up screaming for his mother, tears running down his cheeks.

She turned on the light in his room and was sitting on his bed in an instant, her cool hands feeling the back of his neck and touching his brow. “What’s wrong Stevie?” she asked, her Irish brogue thick with sleep, “do you have a fever?”

“My back,” Steve sobbed. “It hurts!”

“Your back…” she repeated as she lifted up his pyjama shirt. He hitched a breath as the edge of the shirt brushed over his skin. It felt raw, like he’d slid over gravel. 

“Oh honey,” she sighed, and he could hear the mix of relief and sadness in her voice. He felt her weight shift as she stood. 

“Mommy?”

“I’m going to get you a cloth,” she replied as she left.

Steve lay on his stomach on his bed wiping at his eyes. He could feel where the skin on his back was burning, like a snaking line curving around the inside of his right shoulder blade and down the edge of his spine. There was a sticky, wet feeling as well, and gingerly he reached up to touch it.

“None of that,” his mother said as she sat back down and pressed the cloth to his back. He hissed when it made contact, and then sighed in relief as the tepid water eased some of the pain. He heard his mom make a ‘tching’ sound. “You’re bleeding.”

“What’s wrong?” Steve said, panic squeezing his chest, “what is it?”

“It’s your soulmark,” his mother said, “it’s come early.”

“What?” Steve pushed himself up until he was sitting beside her on the bed.

“Your soulmark,” she repeated. “Normally they don’t come in until people are much older, but…“ She shrugged and smiled although her eyes were sad. “You must be a very lucky boy.”

“Why?” Steve said. He searched her face, trying to understand why she seemed upset. “Why is that lucky?”

“Because soulmarks only appear when you're going to meet your soulmate within three years,” his mother explained. “And yours just appeared. So you’ll be meeting them before you turn ten.” 

“Huh.” Steve frowned. A sudden thought struck him and he looked at her again. “Will I hafta go away?”

She laughed. “No darling. You’re much too young to go with your soulmate now. But you’ll meet them soon, that’s for certain.”

His skin still felt sore, but the painful scraped feeling was fading. “What does it say?” 

His mother lifted the cloth off his back. “It says, _It’s okay, I’m fine._ ”

Steve blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” his mother confirmed. 

“But what does it mean?” he asked, confused. “Why would they say that?”

“Maybe it looks like they’re in trouble?” she suggested. “It sounds like you’re offering to help them.”

“But, they’re okay?” Steve asked. He had a sudden, chilling image of his soulmate, lying on the pavement somewhere, blood pooling around them and he shivered. In his imagination, his soulmate was a boy with dark hair and bright blue eyes.

“The letters are nice and dark,” his mother confirmed with a gentle pat to his back. “They’re fine.” 

“Well they _say_ they’re fine,” Steve muttered, feeling a bit better. “Maybe they’re not.”

“Maybe,” his mother agreed. “But I think they must be alright. Or why would they say otherwise?”

“Maybe they’re stubborn,” Steve said. “Or they don’t want to say that they’re hurt.”

“He must be a boy, then.” His mother smirked at him. “Only boys can be that stubborn.” 

Steve laughed, liking that idea. “A stubborn boy.” But then he frowned. “Will I hafta marry him?” 

His mother laughed again, a light, happy sound that made Steve smile. “Only if you want to, my heart, but trust me.” She winked. “Most people want to marry their soulmates.” But then her face grew somber again. “I just wish you weren’t meeting him so young.”

“What’s wrong with meeting him young?” 

“Meeting your soulmate changes your whole life,” his mother sighed. “And I just think you’re a bit young to have your whole life changed.”

“Did meeting daddy change your life?” Steve asked.

“Even before I met him.” His mother brushed his bangs off his forehead. “My marks came in when I was sixteen—not much older than you, really.” She smiled again, deep enough that the dimples in her cheeks showed. “And two years later I had my plane ticket for America.”

“You moved to America for daddy,” Steve said contentedly. He knew this story off by heart and never got tired of hearing it.

“Yes,” she agreed. She dropped the cloth on the floor and pulled down his shirt, putting her arm around him and rubbing at his side. “Ah, you’re so thin my love!” she said, tickling him. “Time to put some meat on those bones!”

Steve laughed and shoved gently at her hands. “Tell me the rest.”

“Well,” his mother said, hugging him close to her. “I knew I had to move to America even before I met your father.” 

“Because of the map!” Steve grinned.

“That’s right.” She grinned back, and her voice sounded like it did when she told him stories. “My marks came in when I turned sixteen,” she repeated, “and oh, they hurt! They were on my left leg, just under my knee. And they burned like blazes when they formed.”

“Did they bleed?” Steve asked, already knowing the answer.

“Like a lake,” his mother said. “The blood soaked through my jeans and completely ruined my brand new shoes.” 

Steve giggled. “Then what happened?”

“Well, I didn’t meet him right away, did I?” she said. “In fact, a whole six months went by and I hadn’t met any boy or girl who introduced themselves to me with the charming words I knew my soulmate would use.” 

“ _Please, miss, let me help you with that,_ ” Steve recited. He used to trace the thick, dark letters written in his father’s heavy scrawl, his small fingertips barely covering the lines. They had gone a silvery-grey a few days after his father had died. He hadn’t touched them since. 

“That’s right,” his mother said again. Her smile grew watery for a moment, but then she swallowed and seemed to collect herself. “But even though I walked around my village carrying the heaviest things I could find, no one offered to carry them for me.”

“But you really wanted to find him.”

“I really wanted to find him,” she agreed. “So then what did I do?”

“You went to the map!” 

“I went to the map,” his mother repeated. “Because in my village, there's an old story that said, if a person is looking for their soulmate, all they need to do to find them is to go to a map, close their eyes, think long and hard about the marks on their body, and then point. And wherever they point to, that is where their soulmate shall be.” 

“So you pointed,” Steve said.

“And my finger landed on New York.” She smiled. “So I moved to America to find him.”

“And you met him at the airport the first day you arrived!” Steve said happily.

“He was the taxi driver who drove me to Brooklyn,” his mother continued. “And even though I had planned on finding my own place, I ended up moving in with him that very same day.

 _My goodness, what a gentleman!_ was what I said to him. But I didn’t even need to see his marks to know that he was the one. My leg started burning as soon as I was near him. I just _knew._ ” 

“And I was born two years later,” Steve finished triumphantly. 

“The best part of the story,” his mother said, hugging him to her again. 

They sat in comfortable silence in the shadowed room. “Do you think I’ll have to move away to find my soulmate, too?” 

His mother’s smile turned sorrowful, and suddenly Steve understood exactly why she’d looked so sad before. “Sometimes that happens when you find your soulmate,” she said. “I’d hate for my baby to leave.” 

“Me too,” Steve said. Suddenly he didn’t feel that excited anymore. “I don’t want to hafta move away.” 

“Hmm,” his mother mused. She looked at Steve. “Maybe we should check the map.”

“Okay!” Steve bounced his seat on the bed, all the excitement rushing back.

She scrunched up her face. “But it’s late though, maybe we should wait ’til morning?”

Steve's eyes widened. “No, mommy! I won’t be able to sleep if I think I hafta move away!”

His mother laughed. “Okay, but promise me you’ll go to sleep right after.”

“I promise!” 

“Okay then,” she said. “Hold on.” She left the room, only to return a moment later with an old, well-worn map of the world. 

“Careful!” she said, and spread it out gently on the bed. “Now.” She held up Steve’s right hand and folded his fingers so he was pointing straight out, “close your eyes and think of the words of your mark.” 

Dutifully, he closed his eyes. “ _It’s okay, I’m fine._ ”

“Now, point.”

Steve pointed. 

“Open your eyes.” His mother’s voice had gone strangely soft. 

Steve opened his eyes. His fingertip was resting neatly on the edge of the United States, right where New York would be.

His mother beamed. “Well, would you look at that?”

* * *

By the time Steve met his soulmate, everything had changed.

He was two years older, and his mother had been dead for almost a year and he didn’t live in Brooklyn anymore.

His foster-mother, a no-nonsense woman by the name of Melinda, had sent him out of the house to the park. 

“School’s starting soon,” she'd said, “go make some friends.” 

So Steve had gone, clutching his red, white and blue rubber ball like a small shield in front of him, and a heaviness around his heart that he couldn’t shake.

And then he saw him.

The boy was young, probably around Steve’s age, with dark brown hair that looked like it needed a cut and blue eyes that appeared even brighter against the redness surrounding them. He had one arm wrapped around his knees and the other was swiping at his face, smearing snot and dirt everywhere. He was scowling and muttering to himself, each stroke of his wet cheeks tight and swift with anger. It was painfully obvious that he was crying.

The marks on Steve’s back started to burn. 

The boy was his soulmate, and it felt like a hand had grabbed Steve’s heart and given it a painful squeeze. When Steve had imagined meeting his soulmate, he had always thought it would be one of the best moments of his life: They’d just look at each other and _know._ And then they’d be best friends and live happily ever after. 

This boy looked like he didn’t even know what ‘happily ever after’ meant. 

Steve swallowed. He knew what that kind of pain was like. When the rage at the world boiled up inside you until it came pouring down your cheeks. He'd felt the same way when his mother died the year before; felt the same when he’d been forced to move from their cozy apartment in Brooklyn to a foster home in Sunnyside, and then when he’d been told he’d have to go to a new school. Oh yeah, he knew that kind of pain. 

He took a step closer, then another. Steve knew he wasn’t particularly good at making friends. His small size and the fact he was sick all the time meant he couldn’t play the games that the other nine-year-olds wanted to play. And he got into fights a lot because some of the kids were really stupid. Steve hated bullies. 

That thought made him move even closer to the boy. Maybe he’d been bullied by someone. Maybe there was someone that Steve should go fight with. Maybe he and this boy could go fight together. Steve didn’t like fighting, but he hated bullies more. And this boy was big. Steve bet he could fight. 

A flare of sensation raced from one end of his soulmark to the other and Steve gasped as the boy suddenly looked up, one hand pressed to his left arm. He pierced Steve with the sharpness of his blue gaze 

Steve licked his lips, mouth suddenly too dry to speak. 

The boy’s eyebrows drew downwards, his expression changing from challenging to surprised all at once. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m fine.” 

Steve blinked. The boy had said the words. _His_ words, but he wasn’t reacting the way that a soulmate should. It was like he didn’t even know. _Maybe he’s too sad,_ Steve thought. “No you’re not,” he replied. He sat down beside the boy on the wall.

The boy looked away. “What would you know about it?”

“I know nobody's okay when they're crying like that,” Steve said. He picked at the surface of his ball, the edges of the red stripe breaking off under his nails. 

“Yeah, well,” the boy said. He mashed his sleeve over his face again, smearing dirt along his cheek.

“My name’s Steve,” Steve said after a moment. “What’s yours?”

“Bucky,” the boy said. He slid a glance at Steve. “It’s just a nickname, but you can call me that.”

“That’s a weird name,” Steve said, but he made sure he was grinning when Bucky glared at him. 

Bucky’s mouth flicked up in a smile. “Jerk.” 

“Punk,” Steve shot back. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, Steve continuing to pick at his ball, and Bucky sitting with his arms around his legs, staring out into the playground. 

“It was my dad,” Bucky said suddenly. 

Steve turned to him. “Your dad?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, “he died. On Saturday. It was a training accident or something.”

Steve swallowed again, feeling the familiar lump solidifying in the back of his throat where all the grief from his mother’s death rested. “Sorry.”

“He was in the army,” Bucky said, hunching further over his knees. “He fell.”

“Your mom must be really sad,” Steve said. His own father had died way before his mom had, but he knew his mother had missed him. He could remember her rubbing the words on her leg, even after they'd faded like an old scar.

“They were soulmates,” Bucky said, echoing Steve’s thoughts. “She loved him. Like, a lot.”

“My mom and dad were soulmates, too.” Steve said. He glanced over at Bucky, wondering if now would be the right time to tell him that _they_ were soulmates, and that he would love Bucky as much as his mom had loved his dad.

Bucky wasn’t looking at him. He was staring blankly out at the playground. “My dad promised he’d come here with me,” Bucky said quietly. “That we’d play ball or something. Next time he was on leave.”

“We could play ball,” Steve said, he held the rubber ball out towards Bucky.

Bucky sneered at him. “You’re not my dad!”

 _I’m your soulmate,_ Steve wanted to say, but the anger in Bucky’s eyes stopped him. “Sorry.”

Abruptly Bucky stood. “I gotta get back.” He started walking.

Steve jumped to his feet, panic pounding through him. “Wait!”

Bucky turned. “What?” 

“I—“ Steve started. _I’m your soulmate!_ “Where you going?” he said instead. 

“Home,” Bucky tossed back over his shoulder.

“Will you come back?” Steve called after him 

Bucky just shrugged and kept walking.

* * *

“And you never saw him again?”

Steve shook his head and took another drink from his beer bottle. “Nope.”

Clint shook his head as well. “Wow. That sucks, man. I mean, you get your soulmark when you’re like, a _toddler_ ,” meet the guy once, and then never see him again?” He leaned back on the couch. “Terrible.”

“I was seven when I got my marks,” Steve corrected. “And, yeah. It did suck. Does. It does suck.” He sighed. 

They were sitting in the living room of Steve and Sam’s apartment, eating pizza and drinking beer. Clint had come charging over that evening, a case of beer under his arm and a wild grin on his face. His soulmarks had come in just a few hours before, and Clint had decided that it was an event worth celebrating. 

“Man, I just got my soulmarks,” Clint said, for what felt to Steve like the hundredth time, “I’d hate to meet her and, like, lose her right after.” 

“It was pretty bad.” Steve took another drink of beer even though he was already feeling buzzed from the first two. His tolerance for alcohol had increased substantially with his muscle-mass, but he was still pretty much a lightweight when compared to the number that Clint could pack away. But focussing on the bottle meant he didn’t have to see the sympathy in Clint’s eyes. “But I’m okay.”

Sam, too perceptive as usual, paused as he brought his beer bottle to his lips, and glanced between Steve and Clint. “So what do your marks say again?” he said to Clint. “Something about you being an asshole?”

“Oh ha ha.” Clint scowled, but then his whole face brightened. “It says, _You’re a mess!_ ” But then his face fell again. “Although that doesn’t sound too great…”

“Sounds like she’s got you pegged.” Sam grinned as he took another drink, then laughed at Clint’s protesting ‘hey!’

“I’m sure meeting her _will_ be great,” Steve said placatingly. “I remember how excited I was when I got my marks.” The memory of that moment with his mom in his bedroom made him smile, but it was fleeting. His mom had only lived for such a short time afterwards, and then his soulmate had left him in the park. Practically ran from him in his attempt to get home. Steve hunched forward, dangling his now-empty bottle between his knees. 

“Aw, man, I’m sorry, ” Clint said. “Here I am, all happy and shit, and you’re…“ He made a vague gesture with his beer. “Being tragic.” 

That made Steve laugh. “I guess I am feeling a little tragic, yeah. But it doesn’t mean that I’m not happy for you.” He forced himself to sit up. “So, where do you think you’ll meet her?”

“Dunno.” Clint sat back in his chair, absently running his thumb across the bottom of his ribs where his marks had formed. There were a few stains on his t-shirt where the blood from his letters had soaked through. “Maybe the library?” He sat up sharply. “Oh man! Do you think she’ll be a smart chick? I totally dig those.”

“I’m sure she’ll totally dig being called a ‘chick,’” Sam said dryly. 

“I wouldn’t say that to her _face_.” Clint narrowed his eyes at Sam. “Besides, you’re just jealous because your skin is still as bare as the day you were born.”

“Don’t mock my markless-ness,” Sam said as he took another swig. “You know good things come to those who wait.”

“Whatever,” Clint scoffed. “You’re already, what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? By the time you get you’re marks you won’t be able to get it up!” He fell back against his chair, laughing.

“I’m twenty- _five_ ,” Sam said pointedly. “Which is why _I’m_ doing my Masters rather than wallowing around in the undergrad with you monkeys. And besides.” He grinned at Clint, “by the time I meet _my_ soulmate, I’ll be employed. I’ll be a working man, able to actually support a soulmate. What you gonna offer yours?” he said challengingly, “Ramen noodles and peanut butter?”

“That…” Clint pointed at Sam. “Is a mighty fine combination, I’ll have you know.”

The three men burst out laughing, and Steve felt his mood lighten with Clint’s joking. Steve had met Sam all the way back when Sam was the older student assigned to help Steve find his way around a new school. But Clint he’d only met last year when they were both juniors at university. Steve had literally bumped into Clint in the library. He’d been lost and confused, trying to find a nursing journal kept deep in the stacks. Clint had been asleep on the floor, sprawled out like someone had killed him and then just dumped the body. Steve had tripped over his legs. 

“Hey,” Clint said suddenly, looking at Steve, “what do your soulmarks say, anyway?” 

Steve blinked. “I—“

“You don’t have to tell me,” Clint back-pedalled. “I mean, I know it’s private and shit.”

“It’s okay.” Steve smiled at Clint, “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t have to share,” Sam said. He looked pointedly at Clint. “Barton doesn’t always have to get what he wants.” 

“Jealous.” Clint grinned at Sam.

“Mess,” Sam shot back at Clint.

“Dick!” 

“Say what you like.” Sam shrugged. “I already know what Steve’s marks say.”

Clint glared at Steve. “Why does _he_ already know?”

“Because I’ve known him since he was nine,” Sam replied for Steve. “You know a guy that long, you’re gonna see him naked at least once.” 

Clint’s glare softened to something more leering. “That so?”

Steve made a face. “Not like _that_ , Clint! Sam’s my friend, not my—“ _soulmate_ his brain supplied for him. He shrugged.

Sam was laughing. 

“Shut up.” It was Steve’s turn to glare at him.

“I’m just remembering what a skinny fuck you were when we were kids,” Sam chuckled. “Your marks took up half your back!”

“What do they _say?_ ” Clint whined. “Tell me!”

“They say _it’s okay, I’m fine,_ ” Steve quoted. “That’s all.”

“Huh,” Clint said. He tilted his head. “What’d you say back?” 

Steve smiled sadly. “I don’t remember. Can you believe it?”

“It was a long time ago,” Sam offered. “Makes sense you’d forget.”

“Is that why you decided to go into nursing?” Clint sat forward in the chair. “Because this dude looked like he needed help, or something?”

Steve shook his head. “I went into nursing because my mom was a nurse.” That, and the fact he'd had nightmares for years after he’d met Bucky, of his soulmate lying on the pavement, bleeding. Just like the vision he’d had when he’d first got his soulmarks. He winced at the memory.

Clint looked at him. “That’s it. We gotta find this guy.” 

Steve looked back. “What?”

“I hate the way your face looks like this,” Clint said, moving his hand to encompass Steve’s head. “You look all mopey and shit. We gotta find your soulmate and fix it.”

“What?” Steve repeated stupidly, then he shook his head. “No,” he said, “it’s been over twelve years since I saw him last. He’s gone.” Twelve years of trying to forget how much that first rejection had hurt. Even though he was almost twenty-two, thinking of that day made him feel as sad and as helpless as that nine-year-old had been, watching Bucky walk away.

“Bullshit,” Clint said, then his eyes widened. “Wait, is he dead? I mean, did your marks fade already?”

Steve shook his head again. His marks were as dark and black as the day he got them. He'd checked at least once a day since. “No. He’s still alive.”

“Whew!” Clint breathed out and put his hand on his chest. “I thought I’d really stepped into it there.”

Steve smirked. “Not quite.” 

“Give it time.” Sam laughed.

“Fuck you,” Clint said without heat. He turned back to Steve. “So, dude’s still alive. We can find him.”

“How?” Steve asked, “And his name’s Bucky.”

“Dude, Bucky, whatever.” Clint made a face. “That’s a weird name.” 

“Nickname,” Steve supplied. 

“Point is, we can find him,” Clint finished.

“And I’m still asking _how?_ ” 

Sam looked at him. “You know how.”

Steve felt himself go very still. Sam was talking about using the map. “No,” he said, shaking his head with vehemence. “No. No. Not a good idea.”

“You know it will work,” Sam said, raising his eyebrows. “It worked before.”

“What worked before? What?” Clint said, his light green eyes comically wide.

“No,” Steve repeated, still shaking his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Clint protested. “Why can’t you do this thing that will work?”

Steve opened his mouth to explain, but then shut it again. “I just haven’t done it in a long time, is all,” he said quietly. He hadn’t touched the map in years. Not since his mother died. He couldn’t imagine using it without her.

“What did you _do?_ ” Clint wailed. “ _Tell me!_ ”

Sam glanced at Steve, who sighed and gave him a half-nod of consent.

“Steve’s mother was from Ireland,” Sam explained. “She learned this trick as a girl. If you close your eyes and think about your soulmarks, and then point your finger at a spot on the map, you’ll find where your soulmate is.” He met Steve’s eyes. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah,” Steve said on a breath. “That’s right.”

Clint looked at Steve, and then at Sam, and then at Steve again. “Can we try it?”

“I don’t—“ Steve started, but then he looked at Clint and saw the raw hope in his eyes. Clint wanted this to work, not just for Steve to find Bucky, but for him to find the mysterious woman who’s soul had written _You’re a mess!_ in such easy script on his body. Steve felt his protest die on his lips. “Yeah, okay.”

Clint let out a happy yell and bounced out of his chair. “So, where’s this map? Can I get it?”

“It’s in my room,” Steve said. He'd pinned it to his wall when he’d first moved in, loathe to leave one of the last things he had from his mother languishing in a drawer. The three men stood and headed into Steve’s room. 

“Damn this is clean,” Clint said in awe, taking in the sharp corners on Steve’s bed and how the desk was squared away. “Like, do you even _live_ here?”

“It’s here,” Steve gestured at the map of the world he’d carefully mounted on his wall. 

“Sweet!” Clint went right up to it. He stopped and turned. “So, what do I do?”

“I thought we were doing this for Steve,” Sam said dryly.

“This is the practise run.” Clint grinned. He turned back towards the map, stuck out his finger and closed his eyes. “Like this?”

Steve tilted his head, considering. “It’s not gonna work,” he said finally. “The map’s too big for you to reach the top. What if she’s in Russia, or something?”

“Why would she be in Russia?” Clint asked, but he dutifully stepped back. 

Sam eyed the obvious height difference between Clint and the top of the map. “Maybe we should get him a chair.”

“Fuck off,” Clint muttered, then his eyes brightened. “I got darts!”

“What?” Steve said to Clint’s back as the other man raced out of the room. 

“He’s got darts,” Sam repeated as Clint barged back in. 

“We can use the darts on the map,” he explained, pulling one out of a case and showing it to Steve. “We can think about our soulmarks and then throw the darts. That should work.”

Steve licked his lips, contemplating small pin marks in his mother’s map. 

Sam’s look was far too knowing. “We could just get him a chair.” 

“No, it's okay,” Steve said. Clint’s aim was legendary. Any hole he made would be small. 

“Great!” Clint moved further away from the map and closed his eyes. “Wait. Should I turn around? Maybe I should turn around.” He stood so his back was to the map, his eyes still closed.

The room got very quiet. 

Clint cracked an eye. “Should I go?” 

“Yes,” Sam and Steve said at once. 

“Okay,” Clint said. “ _You’re a mess,_ ” he murmured and tossed the dart over his shoulder.

It landed with a satisfying _thwack_ right into:

“New York.” Sam narrowed his eyes at Clint. “You sure you didn’t cheat?”

“I don’t cheat,” Clint said, clearly affronted. “That’s years of training.”

Steve knew it was true. In a few of Clint’s more serious moments he’d alluded to growing up in a circus, practically homeless and with almost no positive parental influences. The fact that Clint wasn’t dead was a small miracle, and the fact that he was in university instead of jail an even larger one. The circus may have not been good for much, but it certainly trained Clint to have phenomenal aim. His ticket to university had been paid for with an archery scholarship. 

“So, she’s here,” Steve said and was awarded with Clint’s excited yelp.

“She’s here! She’s here!” Clint stopped and looked down at himself and his ratty, stained t-shirt and torn jeans. “Shit! I need to go change!”

“She’s going to call you a mess for a _reason!_ ” Sam laughed. “Besides, she’s not going to be walking through the door of the apartment. You’ll probably meet her on the subway, or at a coffee shop or something.”

Clint shot a glare at Sam. “I guess I’ll change later.” He turned to Steve. “You wanna go?”

“No,” Steve said. 

Clint lowered the hand that was holding a dart out to Steve. “Why not?”

“Because—“ Steve stopped. He took a breath. “Because my first meeting with him didn’t go so well,” he said finally.

Clint blinked. “But you were, like, five.”

“I was _nine_ ,” Steve corrected, but then he dropped his gaze, running his fingers through his hair. Maybe it was the three beers he’d drunk, but he found himself being uncharacteristically honest with Clint. “I just don’t want that to happen again.”

“I don’t think he will,” Sam said quietly. “He was going through a rough time, when you first met. You’d said his father just died.”

Steve nodded. 

“And he’ll be older now,” Clint said. “For sure he’ll want to meet you.”

“You don’t—“ Steve started.

“Are you kidding?” Clint cut in, “have you _looked_ at yourself?”

Steve smirked at that. “Thanks, I think.”

“You’re a total catch,” Clint continued vehemently. “I mean, you even keep your room neat and everything. Soulmates love that shit.” 

Sam looked at him. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

Clint ignored Sam. “Come on, Steve! Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

“It’ll be different this time,” Sam said, placing an encouraging hand on Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve was still afraid, but he'd never considered himself a coward. “Okay,” he sighed and took the dart that Clint handed him. 

He closed his eyes and thought of his marks, _It’s okay, I’m fine,_ and threw.

The dart landed solidly right in the middle of Paris, France.

“Damn,” Sam said.

Clint grinned at Steve. "Guess you're going to Paris."

Steve swallowed. "I guess I am."

* * *

“I’m not going to Paris.”

Rebecca ‘Becca’ Barnes rolled her eyes at her brother. “You already promised. So you are.”

“That was before,” Bucky groused. He flopped onto her bed, spreading his arms wide.

“Before what?” she challenged him. “Fantasy football season? The next beer-pong championship?”

“hardy har har.” Bucky raised his head to scowl at her and then flopped back down. “I have a job interview with Stark Industries at the beginning of May. I hafta prepare.”

“So come the week after. I’m there until next September. I can wait.” She turned to face her vanity and started brushing out her long brown hair. “Besides, Stark loves you. You’re a shoe-in.”

“That’s not for sure,” Bucky said, raising his head again just long enough to ignore Becca's eye-roll in the mirror. “But either way, I still need to be here for it. And maybe afterwards, in case they have more questions or something.” 

“They could always email you the questions, or even Starktime you.” She straightened her part. “They _are_ technological giants, after all. Surely they can figure out a way to contact you even if you’re not in Brooklyn, waiting by the phone.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be going either,” Bucky said. He raised himself up on his elbows to look at her. “Maybe you should just finish your degree here and go to France some other time.”

“Linguistics major, remember?” Becca kicked her chair around to face him, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s kinda hard to become fluent in a language if you don’t go to the country where they speak it.”

“You could go to Canada,” Bucky said. “They speak French there, don’t they?”

She made a face. “It’s not the same type of French.”

“French is French,” Bucky muttered. He dropped back down. 

“I don’t get this," she said. "Why are you so against Paris all of a sudden?” 

“I just got a feeling, is all,” Bucky said. He rubbed his left bicep.

“Oh my God!” his sister exclaimed. He looked up at her and how wide her blue eyes had become. “Is this about your soulmate?”

“What?” Bucky made a face. “No. Of course not.”

“It is!” she shrieked and jumped onto the bed beside him. “Is your mark tingling again? Is it burning?”

He scowled at her. “No,” he said. “You know it ain’t done nothing like that since we were little kids.”

“But you were rubbing it!” she said. “And don’t say ‘ain’t’. You sound like you’re from the forties.”

“I always rub it,” he said. “And I’ll say ain’t if I want.”

She poked him in the arm. “So what is it then? If you’re mark isn’t flaring or anything? Why don’t you want to go?”

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, sitting up. He shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m getting the map.”

“No, Becca, don't!” he shouted. “Damn,” he muttered, he flopped down again and threw his forearm over his eyes. 

She was back in a minute. “Here!” she crowed, smacking it down on the bed beside him.

“I ain’t gonna,” he muttered. He didn’t move his arm.

“Oh come on!” She smacked him on the chest. 

“Ow! Quit it.”

“Just touch the fucking map, Bucky!” 

He removed his arm. “I ain’t gonna,” he said as if there was a period between each word. “And don’t swear.”

“I’ll stop fucking swearing when you stop saying ‘ain’t.’” Becca picked up his hand closest to her. “Now just point your index finger—“

He sat up. “I said no!”

Her face screwed up in puzzlement. “Why not?”

“Because I already tried it, alright?” He rubbed his left bicep again, turning his face away from her.

“Oh,” she said quietly. She picked up the map and started to gently fold it back up. 

Bucky blinked and turned back towards her again. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means that I think I figured out what’s going on,” she said, still focussed on the map. 

“Oh yeah?” He crossed his arms. “So enlighten me, why dontcha?”

“You got Paris already, didn’t you?” 

Bucky blinked again. “How did you know that?”

“Because that’s where you ‘feeling’ about Paris comes from. It’s why you don’t want to go,” she said. She shrugged. “You’re scared.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I ain’t scared.” 

She narrowed her eyes back. “Ain’t you?” she mimicked, “Then, if you know that your soulmate is in Paris, and you have the perfect opportunity to go, why aren’t you jumping at the chance?” 

He rolled his eyes. “It's complicated.” 

“It's not a relationship status on Facebook,” she shot back. “Your soulmate is in Paris and you could go meet her. What’s complicated about that?”

“Firstly, it’s a _him._ ” Bucky glowered at her. “And secondly, _it’s complicated._ ” He collapsed back down on the bed.

“How do you know it’s a him…“ She stopped, and he could practically hear the wheels turning in her head. “You’ve met him already, haven’t you.” She didn’t make it a question.

“Yep,” Bucky sighed. 

“So,” she said slowly, “if you’ve met your soulmate already, why aren’t you together?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “Remember when I was ten, and I disappeared for almost a whole day, and when I hadn’t reappeared by suppertime mom finally called the cops?” 

“Of course,” Becca said immediately. “It was right after dad died.” She put her hand on his arm. “The cops finally found you at dad’s grave.” 

“Yeah.” Bucky put his hand over hers. “What I never told anyone, was that before I went to the graveyard, I went to the park.” He tilted his head to look at her. “You remember that park?”

“Yes.” Becca smiled, “it had that great swing-set and the climbing structure in that weird shade of purple.”

Bucky smiled back at her. “That’s the one.”

“So, what happened at the park?” 

“I was sitting on those rocks at the edge. Remember those?” At her nod he continued. “And I was sobbing my guts out. And while I’m bawling, what suddenly happens? But the soulmarks on my bicep just burn like they’ve been set on fire. So I look up—“

“And?” Becca prompted.

“And, there he was,” Bucky said. “This skinny blond kid with the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. And I _know,_ Becca, I just know that it’s him. That this skinny blue-eyed kid’s the one.” He felt silent, remembering.

“Then what happened?” 

Bucky had to smirk at the memory. “So, here I am, blubbering and crying and my face is covered in snot, but I turn to this kid, and I tell him ‘It’s okay, I’m fine.’ And he just looks at me and says; ‘no, you’re not,’ and sits down.” He shook his head in remembered admiration.

Becca’s face broke out in a grin. “He said your soulmarks!”

“That’s right,” Bucky agreed. “But our dad had just died, right? And I'm miserable. So instead of doing anything about my soulmate being _right there,_ I left.”

“Oh,” Becca said quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky let out on a gust of breath. “I walked away from my soulmate when I was ten years old, Becca.” He looked at her. “Who does that?”

“Ten-year-old boys with broken hearts,” she said with a gentle smile. “I’m sure he’d forgive you.”

Bucky re-focussed his gaze on the ceiling. “What if he doesn’t? What if that was my only chance, and I blew it?”

Becca pushed out her bottom lip. “Well, I’d really hate for my big brother to end up with some asshole who couldn’t get over something he’d done when he was ten years old, so there’s that.”

Bucky burst out laughing. “Good point.”

“Don’t worry,” Becca said, shaking his side gently. “I’m sure that your soulmate will totally understand why you left him standing all alone in a playground when he was a child.”

Bucky shoved at her arms. “Fuck off.”

“Poor little soulmate! Abandoned! All alone!” She started tickling him.

“Becca!” Bucky shouted as he grabbed her and threw her down on the bed. 

“Bucky!” she laughed as she scampered back onto her knees and smacked him with her pillow.

“Quit it!” Bucky grabbed her other pillow and smacked her in retaliation. 

“Only if you promise to come meet me in France!” She belted him in the side of the head. He lost his grip on the pillow and she snatched it out of his hands, pummelling him with both of them at once.

“Stop!” he cried, arms wrapped around his head. “Stop it! STOP IT!”

“Promise!” she shouted.

“Okay, okay! I promise!”

She stopped hitting him. “Awesome.”

“I hate you,” he muttered. 

“I hate you, too.” She grinned and bent down to kiss him on the cheek. “More than anything.”

* * *

It was mid-may before Steve arrived in Paris. And it was amazing.

Just like the cliché, Paris was something to behold in springtime. The flowers had begun to bloom, the trees were lush and green, and the mood of the people was light and happy, as if the warm sun had melted any heaviness of spirit along with the cold. 

And of course, there was the art. 

Steve was majoring in Nursing. He had plans to work in an emergency department when he graduated, maybe even do some work overseas. He liked nursing. He felt like he could make a difference with it and maybe even do some good.

But Steve _loved_ art. 

And Paris, as they said, was for lovers. 

He’d been to the Orsay, and the Rodin museums and the Centre Pompidou to contrast with the first two, and he’d also seen at least two other museums of sculpture and pottery and medieval art and he was practically losing track it was so amazing. 

In fact the trip itself was amazing, and Steve had been kicking himself a little bit for waiting until he was nearly twenty-two years old to finally get here. The food was great, the people friendlier than he’d thought they’d be, the streets and alleys looked as picturesque as they did in the movies. And well, the museums…

It was the trip of a lifetime, and even though Steve was travelling by himself and didn’t really speak French, he couldn’t complain. 

Except for the fact that he’d been having the same nightmare every night: Bucky lying on his back on the sidewalk, eyes open and staring as a bright red pool of blood expanded around him.

It was a horrific image, and one that took Steve hours to shake after he’d dreamed it. 

But other than the nightmares, there had been no other sign of Steve’s soulmate. The skin on his back hadn’t even itched the entire time he’d been there, and in three days Steve was heading home. 

It was Wednesday night, and Steve had treated himself to a trip to the Louvre, the most famous art museum in the whole world. Steve had done research, and had even planned a three-hour tour that would take him by all the most famous exhibits. But it turned out three hours hadn’t been enough, and the Louvre was open until 9:45 at night on Wednesdays, so Steve had stayed until one of the museum’s security officers had kindly but firmly pointed him to the exit. 

Steve took a deep breath of the cool air, shrugging on his jacket against the evening’s slight chill. It still turned to night quickly in June, and the lights of Paris were twinkling against the dark blue sky. 

It was a gorgeous night, and even though Steve had been roaming through the halls of a museum all day, he still felt wide awake. His guide book had said that the Eiffel Tower was open until nearly midnight and it was only about a forty-five minute walk from the Louvre. Shouldering his backpack, Steve started walking.

His route took him over the Seine and then wound in a nearly serpentine path through well-treed streets populated with chic stores, small cafes and inviting restaurants with umbrella-covered patios. He had to take special care at the crosswalks. It was as if the zebra stripes actually made the pedestrians invisible to the cars, and he had learned quickly to actually wait for the cars to stop before attempting to cross. 

At the Avenue Gustave Eiffel, he stood in awe, just taking in the structure that had been the heart of Paris for over one-hundred and twenty years. People, mostly tourists, ebbed and flowed around him as he stood. Even though the hour was growing late, there were still numerous people heading towards the tower, probably attracted by the pleasant evening and the way the tower twinkled with lights. 

His phone buzzed and Steve took a step back from the edge of the sidewalk. 

**How’s the search?**

Steve grinned. Sam had been texting him faithfully every day, even with the six hour time difference, asking him how he was doing. 

**No sign yet. But maybe tonight?**

Steve didn’t actually think that it would be tonight, if past were predicting future. But he knew that Sam wanted him to remain optimistic. He’d share his disappointment over beers with Sam and Clint when he got home. That reminded him:

**Clint find his SM yet?**

The reply was almost immediate. 

**No, but he won’t shut up about it.** Steve chuckled when he read it.

 **Where you at now?** Sam texted right after.

 **At the Eiffel Tower!** Steve texted back with about a hundred exclamation points. 

**I hate you.**

Steve laughed and then texted him a farewell and slipped his phone back into his bag. He looked up at the tower, completely understanding Sam’s jealously. Going up the Eiffel tower was going to be a dream come true. He only wished he could have shared it with his mother. 

Or even his soulmate really. But clearly that was another far-off wish, not to be granted. 

Steve sighed and forced the melancholy thought out of his head. He was in Paris after all, and that certainly should've been good enough. 

The light changed, and the crowd of people around Steve surged forward onto the crosswalk, and he joined them. He’d only walked about two steps away from the curb when suddenly he felt his back start to itch.

No, his back wasn’t itching, it was his soulmark, and it was _burning_. Sharp enough that he stopped mid-stride and raised his head to look around.

It was like everything was happening in slow motion. Steve saw a man and a woman crossing towards Steve from the opposite end of the street, clearly heading away from the tower. They had been talking and laughing about something when the man suddenly stopped and looked up, his hand moving to touch his left bicep as if it hurt. 

He was looking over the crowd of people crossing, his eyes searching. Then as Steve watched, the man's eyes suddenly shot wide. He shouted and shoved his companion hard enough to send her sprawling forward.

Which was the exact second that the speeding car skidded into the crosswalk, hitting the man and everyone around him.

* * *

It was pandemonium.

The whole incident had taken seconds to occur, but now the area was like something right out of Steve’s nightmare.

The crosswalk had been packed with people when the car had ploughed through and smashed into a light stanchion. And now it looked like a bomb had gone off. There were people everywhere, screaming and crying and lying injured on the street. 

Steve felt like his mind had shut down as he stared in shock at the terrifying sight before him. 

But Steve had been studying to be a nurse; he was going to write his certification exams at the end of June. He'd chosen clinical placements in the ER and the ICU and had even flown out with the AngelMed Air Ambulance. He'd dealt with blood and gore and people in pain. This was what he'd trained for. 

He scanned the crowd, performing triage of the wounded with his eyes. Anyone who was sitting he skipped over, looking for those who were worse off. And then he saw the man who'd been hit first, the one who'd pushed the woman out of the way, and Steve started running.

The guy was in a really bad way. 

Steve knelt by his side and quickly assessed the damage. It looked like the man’s arm had gone through the windshield before he’d been thrown up over the roof of the car. There was a long tear through both his jacket and the sleeve of his dress shirt, showing a wicked-looking gash on his upper left arm. His face was sliced open from left eyebrow to cheek where he must've smashed into the vehicle before he’d gone over. Steve figured that he probably had injuries to his lower extremities as well but they’d have to wait until he got the arm bleed under control. It was bleeding hard, soaking into the man’s brown sports coat and pooling under his shoulders and head.

In fact, it looked just like Steve’s nightmare of Bucky lying in a pool of blood.

Steve forced the image away, focussing on the injured man before him. Deftly he removed a strap from his backpack and fashioned it into a tourniquet, reefing it tightly over the man’s upper arm. The river of blood immediately stopped and Steve let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” the man muttered.

“No, you’re not,” Steve said automatically as he tied off the strap. Then he froze, realizing what the man had just said. There was a flare of warmth on his back, tracing the path of his soulmarks. “Bucky?” Steve breathed, looking at the man’s face.

“Steve?” Bucky said, his mouth curved upwards. “Steve.”

“Oh my God,” Steve swore as he shifted to check Bucky for other wounds. Quickly he moved his hands from Bucky’s head down his body to his feet, checking each limb in turn. Bucky cried out when Steve palpated the left side of his chest and again when Steve squeezed his left thigh. There were probably bone breaks in both areas, and that, coupled with the terrible wound on his arm and the probable head injury, meant that Bucky needed a hospital as soon as possible. 

“Your leg looks broken, and I think you might have some broken ribs as well,” Steve reported as he moved back to Bucky's side. “But you’re going to be okay, Bucky, I promise.”

“My sister?” Bucky murmured. His eyes were half-closed, their brilliant blue looking nearly black in the low light. 

Steve looked up and saw the woman that Bucky had pushed out of the way. She was sitting on the pavement, crying and gripping her wrist. An elderly woman was with her speaking to her urgently with her arms around her shoulders. She was clearly holding Bucky’s sister back from going to him. 

“She’s fine,” Steve said. He stroked his hand through Bucky’s hair. He looked up again to see the flashing lights of an emergency vehicle. “Don’t worry, the ambulance is here.”

Bucky lifted his hand and touched Steve’s cheek with his fingertips. His fingers were cold.  
“M’soulmate.” Bucky smiled. There was blood on his teeth.

“Yeah.” Steve gripped Bucky’s hand. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Bucky’s eyes slipped closed. 

And then Steve was being gently but insistently removed from Bucky’s side by a firefighter as two others knelt by Bucky, effectively blocking him from Steve’s view.

“Êtes-vous blessé?” One of the firefighters demanded. And then in response to Steve’s blank look, repeated “you are wounded?” in heavily-accented English.

“No, no,” Steve replied as the firefighter checked him over anyway, clearly taking his shocked expression to be caused by an injury. It took several minutes for the firefighter to decide that Steve probably was okay and to leave to check on someone else.

By the time Steve was able to look for Bucky again, he was gone.

* * *

Steve clasped his phone tightly to his ear, listening as it rang an ocean away.

“Hello?” 

“Sam?” Steve choked out.

“Oh my God, Steve!” Sam exclaimed on the other end of the line. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“I’m--I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I didn’t mean—“

“It’s okay,” Sam interrupted. “It’s just, we heard about the crash on the news. And it was right where you were. And when you didn’t answer your phone…“

“I know, I know,” Steve said. “And I’m sorry.” He could hear the shaking in his voice.

“It’s okay,” Sam repeated. He was using the calm tones he normally reserved for people he was counselling. “You’re on the phone now.” He paused. “You alright?”

Steve put his hand over his eyes, feeling the tears begin to prick at his eyelids. “Bucky—“ he started, then took a breath trying to steady himself. “My soulmate—“ The word stuck in his throat.

“He was there?” Sam asked, concern apparent in his tone. “Steve, was he there?”

“Yeah,” Steve forced past the lump in his throat. 

“Is he okay?” 

“No.” Steve squeezed his eyes more tightly shut behind his hand, feeling the tears slip out from under his lids. 

Sam’s voice was totally matter-of-fact. “Give me an hour to get my things and get to the airport. I’ll be there by tomorrow morning.”

“No,” Steve said again. “No, I’m already at the airport. I’m about to board a plane home.”

“What? Why?” 

“Because I couldn’t find him!” And now Steve was sobbing, standing in the middle of the departure gate with his hand pressed over his eyes. Part of him knew that he must be making a spectacle of himself: some American tourist losing his shit in the Charles de Gaulle Airport. But most of him didn’t care. “They took him in an ambulance and there were _so many_ people who got hurt and I don’t speak French and I _don’t even know his real name!_ ”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam soothed. 

“I couldn’t find him,” Steve repeated. “There are forty-four hospitals in Paris. _Forty-four!_ and I went to them all, Sam! Every single one. And no one would tell me—“ He broke off, weeping.

“It’s okay,” Sam said again. “We’ll find him, Steve. Give me a couple hours, I’ll grab a plane ticket and—“

“I think he’s dead,” Steve cut in. “He was hurt really bad, Sam. There was blood… and now my soulmarks— I don’t feel _anything_ from them. Nothing! Not since…Not after he--”

“Steve, _Steve!_ ” Sam was shouting in his ear. “Are they still black? Have you checked to see if they’re still black?”

Steve wrapped his arm around himself. “What?”

“Have you checked your marks to see if they’re still black?” Sam said slowly. 

“No.” Steve had been too busy running from hospital to hospital in the last three days, looking so hard… “No, I haven’t.”

“Okay,” Sam said, still in that calm, slow tone. “Go to the bathroom, take off your shirt and look at your marks. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah.” Steve was still crying, but not quite as hard. “Yeah, I can.”

“Good. Go do that, and tell me as soon as you’ve checked. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve sniffed. He wiped his eyes again and looked around him to find the bathroom. There were several people who were looking at him with combinations of concern and sympathy, but no one held his gaze when he looked directly at them. He saw the bathroom and jogged towards it.

As soon as he was inside he dropped his jacket on the floor and with shaking hands and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He craned his neck around to look at his soulmarks reflected in the counter-length mirror. 

“Steve?” Sam was saying in his ear. “Steve? You there?”

“They’re still black.” Steve sagged against the sink, so relieved that he thought he’d faint. He ignored the man staring at him at the other end of the counter. “He’s alive, Sam. He’s alive.”

“Thank God,” Sam’s prayer was fervent. “He’s alive,” Sam repeated. “We can work with that.”

Steve hunched over, t-shirt gripped tightly in his hand and tears still sliding down his cheeks. “What do I do, Sam? What do I do?”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “I’ll be there by tomorrow morning. Just give me the word.”

Steve shook his head even though Sam couldn’t see it. “No.” He closed his eyes. “I think I should just come home.”

“You sure?” Sam asked. “Because Clint and I can be at the airport in an hour.” 

“Clint’s there?” 

“Yeah. He's standing beside me. He’s been worried too.”

“Tell him I’m sorry—“ Steve

“He knows,” Sam said kindly. “You want us to come?”

“No,” Steve said. “No, it’s okay. I think…I just want to come home.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “Give me your flight number. We’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“You don’t have—“

“We will pick you up at the airport,” Sam cut him off. His tone brooked no argument.

Steve swallowed. “Okay.” 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Sam said. “Your boy’s alive. We’ll find him.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed, suddenly feeling every second of the last three days. 

“Now, put your shirt back on,” Sam said, and Steve could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Okay,” Steve said again, and then gave Sam his flight information. He rubbed his forehead.

“We will see you in about seven hours,” Sam said. “Have a good flight, and try to get some sleep.”

“Okay,” Steve said for the third time. 

“I love you, bro.” Sam said.

“You too,” Steve mumbled, feeling a fresh wave of tears. “Tell Clint too.”

“He says, ‘right back atcha,’ and to tell you he’s glad you’re coming home.”

“Me too,” Steve said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He waited for Sam’s good-bye and then ended the call.

There was an announcement in three different languages stating that his flight had started to board. 

Steve put his shirt back on and scooped his jacket off the floor. He was infinitely tired.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he whispered to himself as he headed back to the gate for his flight. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

It was the middle of July. Steve had celebrated his twenty-second birthday, written his NCLEX exams, and had been hired by the Emergency Department of _The Maria Stark Memorial Hospital_ the same week. He was probationary, and working as a casual nurse under a temporary licence as he waited to see if he passed his exams. His new colleagues didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t fully licensed yet though, and he’d been offered shift after shift as they took summer vacation. He’d worked six shifts in a row, ending up with over-time for at least two of them. 

It was after his last twelve-turned-into-sixteen-hour night shift that Maria Hill, the charge nurse, had narrowed her eyes at him and sent him home and told him not to come back for at least a week. 

Steve had tried to protest, but she’d just pointed at the door and he’d skulked out, trying not to feel like a kicked puppy. 

He should've been tired. Exhausted, even. But he couldn’t sleep. So he pulled out his sketch book, hoping that some drawing would help him relax and unwind from such a long shift. 

Which was exactly when Clint bounced into his room and threw himself onto Steve’s bed. 

“I’m bored,” Clint whined.

“Don’t you have a summer course to study for?” Steve stayed hunched over his sketch pad on his desk, eyes not leaving the page.

“I’m not _that_ bored,” Clint said. “‘Sides. It’s easy.”

Steve’s expression was skeptical. “Trigonometry is easy.”

“I’ve been figuring out angles in my head since I was, like, three,” Clint said. “That’s why I take it as an elective.”

Steve shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

“Nope.” Clint shuffled over until his head was hanging off the edge of the bed. “I’m not crazy. Just bored.” He stretched out and poked Steve in the leg. “Let’s do something.”

“I am doing something.” He looked at his picture and frowned in thought, using his thumb to smudge one of the lines.

“Something with _me._ ” Clint poked Steve again. “Please?”

“I’m tired,” Steve said. “I just got off shift.”

“You’re not sleeping.” Clint poked Steve again.

Steve moved so that his knee was out of Clint’s reach. “Quit it.”

Clint sat up and turned so that he was facing Steve. “Come on! I didn’t bug you for, like, _a week_ while you were studying for your nursing exam.”

Steve shot him a look then turned back to his drawing. “You left me alone for barely two days.”

“It _felt_ like a week,” Clint mumbled. He got to his feet and leaned over Steve’s shoulder. “Whatcha drawing?”

Steve moved so his back was blocking Clint’s view. “Nothing.”

“I wanna see.” Clint shifted until he was resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “Who’s that?”

“No one.” Steve shoved at Clint's head.

“Wait,” Clint said, grabbing Steve's wrist. “Wait! Is that Bucky?”

Steve sighed and dropped his head back. “Yes, it’s Bucky. Alright? Can you leave me alone now?”

“He’s really good looking,” Clint said. He dropped Steve’s wrist and moved so he could see over Steve’s shoulder again. “His eyes look blue. Are they blue?”

“Yes,” Steve sighed again. “Yes, they’re blue. Happy?”

“Not really.” Clint sat back down on the bed. “Why haven’t you tried the map again?”

Steve blinked at Clint’s uncharacteristically serious tone. “What?”

“The map,” Clint said, pointing to where it was still pinned to the wall above Steve’s desk. “It worked last time. Why haven’t you tried it?”

Steve rubbed at one of his eyes. They were beginning to feel gritty from lack of sleep. “Because I can’t afford to fly to France again.” 

“Who says he’s in France? Maybe he was just there on a trip,” Clint said, obviously warming to the idea. “Maybe he’s back in New York already. We should go look.”

“No,” Steve said, pulling against Clint’s tugging on his arm. “Clint, he’s not here!”

Clint stopped tugging. “How do you know?”

“I just know, okay?” Steve said. He hunched back over his drawing, turning away from the other man. 

He could feel Clint’s gaze boring into the back of his head. “Did you try the map already?”

Steve didn’t answer.

“Then how do you _know?_ ” Clint demanded. 

Steve got to his feet. “Because his arm was nearly torn off in that car accident!” he yelled. “He broke his ribs and his fucking leg and you do _not_ just get into a fucking airplane and fly to _New York_ barely a _month_ after injuries like that!” 

“Okay, okay!” Clint put up his hands in a defensive position. “Alright, I got it.” His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

Steve scrubbed his face with his hands. The anger surging through him had burned away any sense of exhaustion. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint said again after Steve hadn’t said anything. “I didn’t know he was hurt that bad.”

“Yeah he was hurt that bad,” Steve spat. The image of Bucky, lying broken and bleeding on the Parisian pavement still haunted Steve’s dreams, only this time the nightmare was painfully real. 

“I just miss you, okay?” Clint said suddenly, standing. “You’ve been hiding in your room since you got back from Paris, and I know that you were studying and everything, and I know that losing your soulmate _again_ like that has got to suck, but I never see you anymore.”

“I haven’t been hiding,” Steve said.

“Oh yeah?” Clint crossed his arms. “So what do you call today, then?”

“I'm unwinding from work!” Steve protested, “I worked six shifts in a row. I don’t think it’s a crime that I wanted to relax.”

“You’re ‘relaxing.’” Clint air-quoted. “And that’s why you’re in here by yourself, drawing pictures of a guy that you’re afraid to even track down?”

Steve’s hands curled into fists. “What part of ‘he’s too injured to travel’ did you miss?” 

“Maybe by normal airplane, sure.” Clint crossed his arms again. “But what about a special medical flight? Like that one you worked with? A plane like that could have brought him back.” 

“And what if he _did_ come back?” Steve gestured roughly. “How the hell do you expect me to find him?”

Clint looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Weren’t we just talking about you using the map?”

“Will you _shut up_ about that?”

“But I don’t understand!” Clint threw out his arms. “You know the map works to find soulmates! Why won’t you use it?”

“ _I have used it!_ ” Steve exploded. “Of _course_ I’ve thought about him going on an AngelMed flight! Of _course_ I tried the map! I’ve tried it _every fucking day since I got home!_ ”

Clint bobbed his head back. “What?”

“It’s _not working!_ ” Steve shouted at him. “Don’t you _get_ it?”

Clint’s expression was pure confusion. “Why isn’t it working?”

“ _Because all I can see when I try to think of my soulmarks is my soulmate bleeding out on the pavement!_ ” Steve yelled. He raked his hands through his hair and spun away from Clint, trying to get himself under control.

“But you saved him,” Clint said. “You _helped_ him. He didn’t bleed out.”

“I _know_ that,” Steve spat. “But my, my heart doesn’t. And—“ He took a breath, feeling the anguish of the past few weeks tightening through his chest. “And every time I try to touch the map, or throw a dart or _anything,_ It ends up landing in the ocean, or the Arctic, or somewhere _impossible,_ and now I have to live the rest of my life knowing _I’ll never see him again!_ ” He slammed the side of his fist against the wall, feeling the pulse pounding in his ears. 

They stared at each other in tense silence. 

“Look where your fist landed,” Clint said.

Automatically, Steve turned. 

His fist had made a perfectly circular dent over New York State.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

Clint fled.

* * *

It was the last day of Steve’s week off when Sam knocked on Steve’s door.

Steve was lying on his bed still in his dorm pants. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved and his chin was itchy with new beard growth. 

The skin on his back hadn’t bothered him at all. 

“What do you want?” Steve said to the ceiling.

“You look like shit,” Sam said. “Get up and take a shower. We’re going out.”

“I’m not back on shift until tomorrow,” Steve said, still looking straight up.

“You are not gonna hide in your room until tomorrow,” Sam said. “Get up. We’re going.”

“I don’t wanna,” Steve said.

“You got fifteen minutes,” Sam answered, shutting the door.

Seventeen minutes later Steve walked into their common room, hair still damp from the shower. He had to admit that getting clean did make him feel marginally better. The water had felt soothing and it'd been ten whole minutes when he hadn’t thought about Bucky or felt the crushing despair of knowing that he’d never see his soulmate again. 

“Looking good, Rogers.” Sam smiled at him. “It’s a nice change to see you upright. And not smelly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve muttered. He saw that Sam already had his shoes on. Steve went to the door and slipped on his sandals. It was a warm July and already summer was in full swing. “Where are we going?”

“Breakfast for you, coffee for me,” Sam said. He looked pointedly at the clock. “Because, you know, some of us actually get up in the morning.” 

Steve ignored that. “Fine,” he said, “but you’re buying.”

* * *

It was a short walk to their favourite breakfast place, so Steve was braced for whatever Sam was going to say as soon as they got out the door of their apartment.

“Clint's going to meet us there.”

Steve had expected something like this. Clint hadn’t come by at all since their fight and Steve knew that Sam had noticed, and therefore would do something about it. He sighed.  
“Why? So he can bug me about my soulmate again?”

“So that’s what you two were fighting about.” Sam glanced at Steve. “I thought it'd be something like that.”

Steve looked at Sam. “Why?”

Sam shrugged. “Because you’re pretty hard to rile, Rogers. I figured Clint would’ve had to have hit you where it hurt.”

“It _did_ hurt,” Steve said vehemently. “He was trying to get me to use the map. He wouldn’t shut up about it.”

Sam looked askance at Steve. “And why do you think he was doing that?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. Because he was bored?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Clint got into a fight with you because he was bored?”

“Sure felt that way.” 

“Okay,” Sam said, and this time he stopped walking, forcing Steve to stop with him. They moved to the edge of the sidewalk. It was only mid-morning but the sun was strong, enveloping them in a cloak of light and heat and brightening the storefronts and flower baskets that decorated the sidewalk. The air smelled like summer and a bit like fresh bread, and Steve was suddenly very glad to be outside. “Let’s explore this,” Sam continued. “Besides ‘boredom,’ what other possible reasons could Clint have for pushing you to find your soulmate?”

“I don’t know.” Steve jammed his hands in the pockets of his shorts.

“Try.” Sam smiled.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Okay. Because—because he wants me to find Bucky.”

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed, like Steve were a particularly bright student. “And why would he want you to find Bucky?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “So I can be happy?”

“So you can be happy.” Sam nodded his head. “And why would _that_ matter to Clint?”

Steve found himself smiling without meaning to. “Because we’re friends?”

“Yeah, dummy,” Sam said. “Because you’re friends. And Clint loves you like a brother.” His expression grew serious. “You know that, right? How much Clint looks up to you?”

Steve dropped his gaze. “I never really thought about it.”

“Look,” Sam said. “You know about Clint’s childhood in the circus, yeah?”

Steve nodded. 

“Well, I don’t know how much he actually told you," Sam went on, "but in a few of his quieter moods, he’s told me plenty. And it fucking sucked. No question.”

“I kinda figured that,” Steve said. He didn’t know Clint’s whole story, but he knew enough to know that Clint’s time in the circus was hardly idyllic. 

“Yeah, well, until Phil found him and took him in when he was fifteen, there wasn't a single adult in Clint’s life who gave a damn about him. Not one.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Sam said again, mouth tight. “So, even though he’s almost your age, he’s not gonna behave that way all the time. He didn’t get to be a kid when he was a kid. He was too busy trying to survive. So he’s not always gonna express his love and affection in a way that makes sense to you. In fact, he’s gonna blow it with you every once in a while, and you got to expect that.”

“I never thought about it that way.” Steve titled his head, considering his fight with Clint in a new light. “So, all the time he was pushing me to find my soulmate, he was just trying to make me feel better?”

Sam’s grin was brilliant. “Now you got it.”

“He actually told me that he missed me, when we were fighting.” Steve dropped his head. “And I got mad so fast that I totally ignored it.”

“Well, we’re going to be seeing him in about five minutes,” Sam said, clapping Steve on the back as they started walking. “You can make it up to him, then.”

They walked in silence for a few steps, Steve contemplating what Sam had said, and promising himself to be gentler with Clint in the future. He slid his eyes over to Sam. “You’re pretty good at this counselling stuff.” 

Sam laughed. “That’s the whole ‘Masters’ in Social Work’ thing. You like it?”

“Yeah.” Steve grinned back. “I do.”

* * *

Clint was already sitting at one of the tables when Steve and Sam walked in. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt despite the warm weather, and he had the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He raised his head when they approached, and his expression was as closed and wary as Steve had ever seen it. 

_Not a single adult in Clint’s life gave a damn about him,_ Steve thought. He held out his arms. “C’mere.” 

Clint stood, fingers worrying the edges of his sleeves and his hands nearly hidden. His eyes darted from Steve to Sam, as if trying to figure out what the catch might be.

“Come on,” Steve said, gesturing with his hands to make Clint move forward.

Clint stepped into his arms and Steve hugged him, one hand on the back of his neck, gently pressing Clint’s head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against Clint’s temple. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” 

Clint’s grip tightened around Steve’s back. “S’okay,” he murmured against Steve’s chest. 

Steve smiled. “I missed you.” 

He felt Clint’s grin. “I didn’t even notice you were gone.”

“Dick.” Steve laughed.

“Jerk,” Clint shot back. They disengaged and stood, grinning stupidly at each other. 

“Glad you two have kissed and made up,” Sam said from where he was sitting at the table. “Let’s eat.”

Steve slid in the booth opposite Sam and within moments the server had come by with their coffees and taken their orders. 

“So, um.” Clint was still worrying the edges of his sleeves. “How was your week?”

“Okay I guess?” Steve shrugged. He gave Clint a sheepish grin. “I didn’t do much.”

Clint blinked at him. “Did you just stay in your room?”

Sam shook his head, burying his smile in his cup of coffee. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said quickly. “How was your week?”

“I didn’t find my soulmate,” Clint said. Steve opened his mouth to say something sympathetic when Clint continued: “But I talked with my dad.” 

Sam’s grin broadened. “Don’t you talk with Phil every week?”

“Well, yeah,” Clint agreed. “But I—“ He turned to Steve. “I might've talked to him about your soulmate?”

Steve felt his heart thud painfully in his chest. “Why?” 

“My dad works for the Feds,” Clint said quickly. “And I thought that maybe he could find out if any Americans who got hurt in Paris were flown back home.”

“Oh,” Steve forced out of a throat gone suddenly tight. 

“He, uh, he said that there were three Americans who were airlifted back to the U.S. from that crash, But, um, none were called ‘Bucky.’“ Clint bit his lip. “Sorry.” 

“Oh,” Steve said again as disappointment crashed through him. 

“That was very thoughtful of you, Clint,” Sam said, nudging Steve with his elbow.

“Yeah, it was.” Steve forced himself to smile. “Thanks. Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome?” Clint’s eyes were worried. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything more.”

“Please thank your dad for me,” Steve said. “And really, thanks for asking him.”

Clint picked up his cup with both hands. “Welcome.”

“He’s out there,” Sam said quietly. He gave Steve’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “We’ll find him.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, but he couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

The table settled into an uncomfortable silence. Clint broke it first.

“Screw bacon and eggs,” he said. “Not finding our soulmates suck. I want cake for breakfast. Who’s with me?”

Steve couldn’t help the upward quirk of his lips. “Really?”

“Really.” 

Sam was shaking his head. “Clint,” he sighed. “No wonder your soulmate calls you a mess.” 

Clint’s grin was blinding. “That’s why she loves me.”

* * *

“It ain’t gonna work.” 

Becca glared at him. “Why the fuck not?”

“Don’t swear,” he snarled.

“Don’t say ‘ain’t’,” she snarled back. She pushed his wheelchair around so that he was facing the middle of the room, and coincidently her. 

“Push me back!” he yelled at her. It was two months since the accident in Paris, and Bucky was still almost completely confined to a wheelchair. His ribs were totally healed now, but his left leg wasn't. And while he could weight-bear on his leg now, he still needed support to get around. And he couldn’t use crutches for his left leg with a missing left arm.

He closed his eyes, the familiar feeling of despair pouring through him when he thought of his injuries. While not being able to walk was bad, he knew it was just a matter of time until the bone was completely set. Thanks to his benefits from Stark Industries, a physiotherapist came to his house every day, and he had access to the latest and greatest of medical technology to help him. Tony Stark himself had come to visit him in the hospital in Paris, and had promised to do ‘something’ to help him once he was fully healed. Bucky knew that if it was only his leg and ribs that had been hurt, things wouldn’t be so bad. 

But he'd lost his arm in the accident. His fucking _left arm._ It had been so badly shattered in the crash that the French doctors had needed to amputate it almost as soon as Bucky had arrived in the hospital. 

Oh, intellectually he knew that, over all, the loss of his arm wasn’t the worst thing ever. He could've ended up with permanent brain damage from his head injury, for example. Or he actually could've died. Or his sister could have been the one badly hurt, instead of just breaking her wrist. Her cast had come off even before he’d been discharged. 

But emotionally? Bucky couldn’t think of anything that could've happened to him that would've been worse. 

His soulmarks had been on his left arm, scrawled in a circular pattern on his bicep in precise yet artistic handwriting. The only connection he had to Steve. And now it was gone.

Becca didn't push him back to where he’d been facing the wall. It'd taken him forever to manoeuvre there with a combination of using one good arm and one good leg, and he was _not_ happy with her interference. 

“You can’t just ignore me,” she said, hands on hips. She was standing while he was, of course, forced to be seated, making him need to crane his neck back to look at her. He looked at her waist instead. 

“Try me.”

She sighed and pulled his desk chair over, not that he was using it right now, and plunked it down right in front of him and then sat. “Better?”

He shrugged.

“Look,” she said, crossing her legs, and even _that_ small movement caused jealousy to flare in Bucky’s chest. “I understand how you feel—“

“How the hell can you understand how I feel?” Bucky sneered at her. “You don’t even _have_ your soulmarks yet!”

“Okay,” she said with a clear attempt at patience, “so, fine. I don’t understand how you feel. But I do get that you’re upset that your soulmarks are gone.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be? Not that you’d _know_.” he added nastily. 

“Yes, no soulmarks. I get it.” She rolled her eyes. “But it doesn’t take a genius to know that you’re really angry about this.”

“Obviously, if even _you_ can figure it out.”

She crossed her arms —something else that Bucky couldn’t do— and glared at him. “Does it make you feel better to be mean to me?”

Bucky opened his mouth and then closed it again. He looked away. “No.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I'd hate to think that losing your soulmarks turned you into a total asshole.”

Bucky glared at her. "I lost my arm and my soulmate with it, Becca. I think I've gotta right to be angry." 

“And see? See?” Becca said, pointing at him. “It’s that attitude that I don’t understand! Why do you think that not having your soulmarks means that you’ve lost your soulmate?”

“Because they’re soulmarks,” he snapped at her. “Are you stupid?”

“Not as stupid as you’re being,” she snapped back. 

He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then enlighten me,” she said. She leaned forward. “Bucky, please?”

He sighed. Even when they were kids it was impossible for him to resist her when she looked all sad like that. He felt his shoulders sag, what was left of them. “We get soulmarks to let us know who are soulmate is, right?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I get that part.”

“Yeah, well the part that you’re _not_ getting is the fact that, I _don’t_ have my soulmarks anymore. So how is my soul ever gonna find my soulmate again?” To Bucky’s horror, he felt his eyes fill with tears.

“Oh Bucky-bear.” Becca knelt in front of his chair. She put her arms around him, careful not to brush the still-healing stump of his left arm. It was way less sore than it had been, but it was still painful sometimes, though the docs had promised him that the pain would fade with time. 

Bucky leaned his head against hers and cried on her shoulder, gripping her as hard as he could with only one arm.

“Better?” Becca asked him gently when his weeping had faded to more of a snuffle. He nodded and she grabbed some tissues from a box on the desk. The room had been repurposed from the family dining room, and his ‘desk’ was now their dining room table with almost all the chairs removed. Bucky could hardly wait until he was able to climb the stairs and could go back to his own room again.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he wiped his face. 

“I don’t care if you blubber on my shoulder,” Becca said huffily. “It’s not like this is a nice shirt.”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “I love you.”

“Wow, you really did hit your head hard in France, huh?” she said, ruffling his hair. Then she relented. “I love you too, Bucks. And I’m sure your soulmate does as well.”

Bucky blew out a breath. “How could he? He won’t even know who I am anymore.” 

She sat back down. “But it doesn’t work like that.” There was such certainty in her voice that Bucky felt his gaze snap to hers. 

She must've seen the question in his eyes because she immediately continued: “It’s our _souls_ that make the marks on other people’s bodies, right?”

“I guess.” Bucky shrugged. “I mean, that’s what we learned in school.”

“Right.” Becca nodded. “So, if our souls are what makes the mark on someone else, and it’s their soul that makes the mark on _us,_ then it almost makes the marks irrelevant, doesn’t it?”

Bucky blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Becca rolled her eyes again. “What I’m talking about, dummy, is that the marks are only for us to be able to consciously recognize our soulmates. But our souls know each other on a deeper level. So, your soul will recognize his no matter what.” She smiled. 

“But the marks—“

“Don’t matter,” she interrupted. “Besides, it’s not like you forgot what yours said, have you?”

“ _No, you’re not,_ ” Bucky repeated immediately. He grinned. “I guess I haven’t.” 

She grinned back. “You’ll find him, Bucky, don’t worry.”

He looked at her through his eyelashes. “You want, maybe to get the map for me?”

She beamed at him. “It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

His shift had been gruelling. He was so glad it was almost over.

Steve sank into the empty seat in the cafeteria, rested his head on the back and closed his eyes. There were more comfortable places to go, but the nurses’ break room in the emergency department usually had someone else in it, and while Steve really liked his colleagues at Stark Memorial, this early in the morning he just wanted some peace and quiet before he headed back into to give report for the day shift when they arrived. 

He stretched his legs out in front of him and stacked his hands on his stomach, keeping his eyes closed. He could hear faint noises around him as some of the food counters began to open in time for the morning rush. It was just before six am, and the night had been busy enough that this was the first moment he’d had for a break all shift. He'd told Maria that he could wait it out since it was just over an hour until shift end anyway, but she'd just hardened her mouth in that way she had, and he'd left. Maria was an extremely good charge nurse, but he wouldn’t want to cross her. 

Not that it was hard to stay on her good side, though. Steve had been working at the hospital for just over three months, and so far he really couldn’t complain. The other nurses were fun and he liked all the support staff. Even the doctors were decent, with his favourite being Bruce Banner, a mild-mannered specialist whose temper only showed when the staff were being abused. It felt really good to know that Bruce had his back.

In fact, Steve loved his job and hoped to be working at Stark Memorial for a long time, even though nights like this one were exhausting. 

Steve let his mind drift, allowing the noises around him to fade into the background. Like always, his thoughts went to his soulmate, and Steve's constant wondering of where Bucky was and what he was doing now. 

Steve sighed, and tried to settle more comfortably into the uncomfortable chair, debating whether or not he should just suck it up and use the couch in the break room. He shifted and felt himself frowning. His back itched.

His eyes snapped open. His back _itched._ Steve sat up, completely wide awake.

There was a man at one of the now-open counters, trying to balance one cup of coffee on the lid of another one using only one hand as he limped towards one of the many empty tables. It was obvious from the way his jacket was pinned up on the left side that he was missing an arm. 

He was walking carefully, a look of deep concentration on his handsome face. But it was still painfully clear that the guy wasn't going to make it to a table without at least one of the coffees dropping on the floor. 

Steve was up and moving and had grabbed the top coffee for the man before he’d even realized he’d made that decision. 

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” the guy said.

“No you’re not,” Steve replied automatically, and then stopped, gaping as the marks on his back flared with heat. His eyes flew up to meet the other man’s. They were bright blue, under a mop of short brown hair. 

Bucky's expression was a cross between wonder and pure joy. “Steve.”

“Hey,” Steve replied, throat tight. He put his hand up to touch Bucky’s face, and Bucky turned to press his cheek into Steve’s palm. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, punk.” Bucky smiled. He gestured at one of the tables. “You wanna?”

Steve nodded, and they sat. Bucky winced as he stretched his left leg out in front of him. “Damn.”

“Oh shit, your injuries!” Steve started to stand to help.

Bucky waved him off with his coffee, then took a sip. “S’okay. I’m used to it, and it’s much better than it was, believe me.”

“Oh.” Steve sat back down. He took Bucky in, looking at him in a way that he’d never been able to in their previous encounters. Bucky’s hair was short and artfully mussed. His brilliant blue eyes rested above wide, even cheekbones barely marred by a scar running from his left eye to his left cheek. That, plus his obvious pain from his leg and the missing arm still showed how badly he’d been hurt by the car crash six months ago, and how little Steve’s first aid had helped. He swallowed. “I’m really sorry about your arm,” he said, feeling like guilt was punching him in the gut, “I guess I tied the tourniquet too tight—“

“That was you?” Bucky said, sitting up straighter. “I thought I’d dreamed that!”

Steve blinked. “You didn’t remember?”

Bucky shook his head. “I got my bell rung pretty good. But I remembered being helped by a big blond guy who looked a lot like the squirt I’d met in the park when I was a kid.” He beamed at Steve. “That was you.”

“Yeah, it was me,” Steve reached over and took Bucky’s hand. “And I’m so sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “Your arm was bleeding really badly, so I tied it off with a strap from my backpack. But I must've tied it too tight and stopped all the blood flow to your arm.” He gripped Bucky’s hand a little harder, hoping to convey the depths of his remorse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Bucky was looking at him oddly. “My arm was shattered into, like, two hundred pieces,” he said. “There was nothing the French docs could do. They said that tourniquet saved my life.”

The rush of relief had Steve sagging forward. “Thank God.”

Bucky squeezed his hand in return. “You saved my life, punk.”

But Steve’s guilt wasn’t quite finished with him yet. “But I left!” he said, “I couldn’t find you. I left you alone.“

Bucky was shaking his head. “My sister was there,” he said. “And my mom flew in a couple days later. I was unconscious for a while anyway after getting banged around like that.” He shrugged. “Besides, I wasn’t even sure it _had_ been you when I woke up.” He smiled. “So, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt too.”

“I couldn’t find you,” Steve repeated, trying to get Bucky to understand how badly he’d let him down. “I didn’t know your name, and the hospitals wouldn’t tell me anything about their patients, so I didn’t know where to look…” He dropped his gaze. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s James,” Bucky said. “My name’s James Buchanan Barnes, and in a minute you’re gonna give me your phone so I can put my contact info in it so we’ll never lose each other again.” He grinned. “But for now, you’re gonna shut up about my accident and give me one of those beautiful smiles of yours and we’re gonna drink our coffees. Okay?”

Steve smiled. “Okay.”

“Good.” Bucky disengaged his hand just long enough to drink some of his beverage. He made a face. “This stuff is shit.”

Steve laughed. “Hospital coffee.”

Bucky shook his head. ‘Guess I’m gonna hafta get used to it. I’m gonna be here for a little bit.”

Steve's eyes widened in alarm. “Why?”

Bucky raised his left shoulder. “I’m here for a consult with Dr. Stark. You know him?” 

“Not personally,” Steve said, “but I own a Starkphone, like everyone else on the planet. But _you_ know him?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded. “I got a work placement at Stark Industries when I was doing my engineering degree, and they kept me on after I graduated. So Stark’s kinda my boss. His whole company does a lot of really high-end electronics, and they’ve started making these prosthetic implants that are meant to connect right to your nervous system. He said I might be a good candidate for one of his robotic arms.”

“Wow,” Steve said. “You know Tony Stark.”

“It’s not like we’re _friends_ or anything,” Bucky explained. “But I've met him once or twice, and he came to see me in the hospital after I got hurt.”

“In Paris?” Steve blinked.

Bucky smirked. “He’s really rich.”

“He must like you a lot.”

Bucky’s smirk turned wicked. “I’m very likeable.”

Steve laughed, warmth spreading through his chest. “I’m glad you’re going to get a new arm.”

“It ain’t a done-deal yet,” Bucky said. “But fingers crossed.”

“It’s Stark!” Steve enthused. “Of course you’ll get one.” 

“I hope so,” Bucky said. “It sucks having only one arm, that’s for sure. You ever try washing your hair with only one arm?” He raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Steve winced. 

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded as if Steve had actually spoken. “But the worst part?” He bit his lip. “My soulmarks were on my left arm, like a tattoo on my bicep. _No, you’re not._ ” He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “Losing your words? That was rough.”

“But you still found me,” Steve said quietly. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said again, and this time his smile reached his eyes.

They sat, just staring at each other for a while, drinking each other in. “So,” Steve finally said, “when’s your appointment?”

“Ten.”

Steve blinked. “But it’s not even six am.”

Bucky grinned. “I know.”

“But why are you here four hours early?”

“‘Cause of this,” Bucky said. He let go of Steve’s hand to pull a crumpled tourist map of Brooklyn out of his pocket.

Steve laughed. “You have a map.”

“Well, yeah.” Bucky put the map on the table and rubbed the back of his neck. “My parents were from Romania, and in the old country, they have this idea that, if you think about your soulmarks and touch the map, it’ll tell you where they are.”

“I know.” Steve nodded, still grinning. “My mom was from Ireland, and she taught me that too.”

“No kidding?” Bucky smiled at him. “Well, anyway,” he continued, “once I was up and around and able to get back home, I tried it. I wasn’t gonna. I was sure it wouldn’t work since I lost my marks with my arm. But Becca—that’s my sister—she said that soulmarks were from your soul, so that your words were still a part of me. No matter what. 

I was still worried though,” he continued. “I mean, my memories of you from the accident were really strong, but I wasn’t sure it really _was_ you, you know?” He shrugged his good shoulder. “I mean, for all I knew you weren’t interested anymore, right? I hadn’t been that nice to you when we first met.”

Steve reached over and took back Bucky’s hand. “Your dad had just died.”

Bucky grimaced. “Yeah, well.”

“I never forgot you, Bucky,” Steve said with vehemence. “Never.”

“Me, neither, punk.” Bucky grinned. He picked up the story again. “So anyway, I tried the map thing, and even though I kept hitting Brooklyn, it’s a big place, right? So my sister said that it was proof it was working and I should try just a map of the city, so I did. And bam! Maria Stark Memorial Hospital.”

“I think I owe your sister a drink.” Steve’s grin was huge. “But why so early?”

Bucky’s smile was even wider. “Good guess?”

“And two coffees?” 

Bucky laughed. “I’m a _really_ good guesser.”

Steve gripped his hand tight. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Bucky said. “And I ain’t gonna lose you again, punk. You can count on that.”

“Give me your phone,” Steve said, pulling his out of the pocket of his scrub pants and handing it to Bucky. “Let’s make this official.”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky agreed, “forever.”

END.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Following the Map that Leads to You (FanArt)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7864747) by [AyaroS92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyaroS92/pseuds/AyaroS92)




End file.
